Sherlock: My Mistake
by xxyzz
Summary: For T6T. Why was Sherlock so calm watching the bullet coming at his heart? Maybe because he thought he knew what to expect. (Spoilers should be assumed.)


For T6T. The question: Why was he so frantic in the beginning and yet so calm at the end?

My thought. A possible answer to some of the facts.

Of course, I own nothing. Please forgive any errors. Hope you enjoy the one-off.

000oo000

Nobody got it. Not one.

In a way, he was pleased with that, even as his fears ate at him. He didn't want to be, nor could stand to be, alone with his thoughts. It was why he never stopped working—would never stop. Until this was over he could never stop. So he put up with the insults and jeering. Played stupid when his maturity was scoffed at because they couldn't see what was right in front of their faces.

He had accepted death at Appledore. He had done what he had promised to do and he had accepted it. Didn't anyone remember he could _hear_ the helicopters coming? That would have been "going out on a high note" as people like to say. An animal didn't survive without a habitat and he didn't fit in anywhere anymore. Years of roaming wild had left him close to feral. He lived by instinct—sound, smell, sight, the vibrations of the earth moving through him and he could catch his prey with his mouth as no one else. And then—then—his humanity stubbornly reasserted itself to the disapproving eyes all around him.

You're not supposed to do that.

You're not supposed to say that.

You're not supposed to act like that.

Why do you _always_ have to be like that?

What else did they expect? Really, what else did they expect him to be? He had done everything he could think of to be right. It wasn't enough. He had climbed mountains and crossed fetid jungles to do good, and it still wasn't enough. And in the end, after everything, he knew he had to bow out of the life he had left behind to fix to begin with. And he would, but that didn't mean he intended to pretend that the small patch of ground left to him was enough. If he wasn't laid low next to Magnusson, he believed it wouldn't take long until he was extinct, as any endangered animal might be.

And then there was Moriarty's face to rescue him from the death he'd rightfully earned. Was he to believe that the universe was suddenly this lazy? Seriously? What little drug induced euphoria he experienced quickly turned into a spreading dread. The more his mind turned the possibilities, with no data for him to track, blind fears filled the void. People using his friends to destroy him. Again. Manipulations brought about to return him to the endless path of trying to find distractions. Again. Being hamstrung, hogtied and punished to make him do things the "correct" way. Again. If to no one else, he had proven to himself that no matter what his label was, he was no good at being here. But now the eyes of everyone were on him, all the time. And he just couldn't bring himself to take the matter in hand on his own, not again (sentiment was truly a disadvantage).

So he worked as much, as long and as hard as he could. Soon he would know the lay of the land and the opportunity would present itself; and he never doubted for a second with his presence gone the hunters that tracked him would find better trophies for their walls. He just didn't expect it from the direction it came. But there it was, one final good deed, something that fixed everything once and for all.

He wound that old woman up. Watched the twisted gleam in her eyes. You can do this, you stupid pensioner. The warnings? He never heard the warnings, all he saw was that wrinkled hand increasing its hold on that trigger.

Soon it was all déjà vu, but without the surprise. Just as before, everything slowed down. He had to admire the woman's aim. It was straight and true, with no ridiculous trembling or fearfulness. He didn't want to linger, he remembered how much and how long he hurt before. Only a moment longer—.

Then everything suddenly sped up; disorienting him. What? What? No. No! This was wrong! It wasn't supposed to be like this! No! No! John! John—it wasn't supposed to be her! It was always supposed to be me!

I went to Samarra willingly.

Why wasn't it me?

But the words couldn't be spoken. He could never say this. Nothing would ever make this right. And he might as well have died because now he was to walk alone with this. John was right, he'd failed in his vow.

My mistake.


End file.
